


the touch you crave

by collieflower



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Abstinence, Emotional Constipation, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, M/M, Miscommunication, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Porn with Feelings, Working Through Emotional Constipation via Communication, Yearning, and then it'll be Geralt's turn, how do you Yearn™ for your lover? Jaskier will show you, jaskier said ''fuck pre-marital sex" and i think that's sexy of him, no beta we die like renfri
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-12
Updated: 2020-05-12
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:03:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24142534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/collieflower/pseuds/collieflower
Summary: The decision to wait for Geralt wasn't consciously made. It was like sealing wax put over a low candle flame. It held its shape but as soon as it was acknowledged or touched, he'd all but melted into a puddle, rich and warm. Ready to be molded and stamped anyway the other pleased.Jaskier was going to jump his bones the moment he saw him.Or: someone told me abstinence makes the heart grow fonder and then i wrote a fic
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 7
Kudos: 77





	the touch you crave

**Author's Note:**

> hi i've been working on this for Too Long but i had a breakthru today so here we are :)

At first it was an act of spite, rather than faithfulness.

They were apart for stretches at a time. Months. They haven’t let it go quite so far as _years_ lately, but there’s certainly been stretches much longer than Jaskier would have liked to be away from his Witcher.

Bodies have wants, and partnership isn’t always hard to find when you have a disarming smile and a talent for talking your way in and out of troublesome situations. No matter how swift the trouble, or fleeting the touch, Jaskier and Geralt always came back to each other. It took time, and maybe a nudge of Destiny herself, but sooner or later they were thrown back together again. And with Geralt, there was always adventure. Thrills, too. And plenty of bickering words laced with underlying ( _overlying_ ) fondness.

It was in the middle of June when Jaskier happened upon him.

 _You smell like perfume_ , was the first thing out of Geralt’s mouth. His nose was all drawn up as if he’d said _perfume_ when he’d meant _horse shit_. Jaskier had been on the road for an awful long time, and he’d hit a bit of a dry spell, you see. The people near these parts weren’t too partial to his tales, and Jaskier’s lean coin purse was a direct mirror of that fact.

And there was just something about not being gathered up into stupid, strong arms after a time apart, instead to be insulted because apparently he _smelled_. Geralt didn’t even have the decency to wait until Jaskier neared him to say it. He was still atop Roach, three or so meters up the road. Witcher nose be damned.

Jaskier’s arms, which were spread and waiting, dropped sullenly to his sides. The sunny grin became a frown, no doubt looking like a puzzled fool.

“Nice to see you too, Geralt,” he huffed, giving him a critical once-over. “I was expecting a bit of a hello. Nothing much. You know, _oh, Jaskier, there you are. Been a bit since I’ve seen you. How are you getting on?_ ” He kicked a stone as he settled into step with Roach. He tilted his head up to look at Geralt, squinting perilously into the sun. “And you’re one to talk,” he added dryly. “The onions again, is it? Oh, _hello dear_.” He patted Roach fondly. “Maybe you’re happy to see me?” She shook her mane and he took a generous step back, walking down the road again.

Geralt and Roach followed close behind after a pause. Geralt’s footsteps crunched against the ground, and Jaskier smiled, glancing at him over his shoulder.

“Why were you heading south? Any reason in particular?”

“Is there ever?” he asked.

Jakier shrugged a shoulder. “Sometimes there is,” he hummed. “Just missed you around a month ago, did you know that?”

Geralt’s hand slipped easily into his. He shook his head. “I didn’t. I’d have waited.”

Jaskier smiled at him and squeezed his hand. “You killed a wyvern for them about a week or so before I came into town,” he explained. He dropped Geralt’s hand and instead clasped his own hands behind his back. He twisted to walk backwards for a spell, looking at his lover fondly. The soft evening sun filtered in between the leaves and branches, making Geralt’s hair seem to glow around him like a halo.

“They tried to pay me in a goat,” Geralt told him.

Jaskier laughed. “The innkeeper wouldn’t tell me where you’d gone off to unless I paid him double a night’s stay, can you believe that?” He righted himself back around, swinging his arms at his sides. “I told him to stick his directions up his backside. Said I could track you down in a thunderstorm, blindfolded.”

“Yet here we are. A month later.”

Jaskier shot him a look. There was a small smile etched into the corner of Geralt’s mouth. Jaskier made a small sound in the back of his throat, rolling his eyes. “Well a tip _would_ have been helpful, you know.” He opened his bag and pulled out an apple. He wordlessly offered it to Geralt with it, but the Witcher refused. It was beautifully crisp, and cool from being stuffed in one of his shirts in the shade of his bag. “I did get a little distracted,” he confessed.

Geralt nodded vaguely. Roach made a noise, and Jaskier’s eyes narrowed at the Witcher.

“What does that brooding silence mean?” he asked.

“I’m not brooding.” Something in his jaw shifted, a tendon jumping. His nose twitched again.

“Wh— _Geralt_ !” Jaskier floundered. He sniffed at his collar, but he couldn’t smell anything strong let alone _offensive_ . “I smell perfectly _fine_. Pleasant.”

“You smell as if you bathed in that perfume,” Geralt said, sounding very sure of himself. Like he’d said something very helpful and Jaskier was supposed to say _oh, thank you, really, I can’t believe I’ve been running around like this all day!_

Jaskier’s bite into his apple was vicious. “They’re _oils_ ,” he corrected him. His first two fingers swabbed behind his ear and gave a tentative sniff. They were already mostly worn off — he wasn’t sure how Geralt had even caught wind of them. Bloody Witcher noses. “I borrowed them off a woman I stayed with. I think they’re lovely.”

Geralt hummed, his eyes flicking up and down Jaskier. They paused, briefly, on his neck. On a sordid little red wine-mottled spot Jaskier knew was peeking out just under his collar. “Is she expecting you back?” the Witcher asked, sounding very curious, and as close to jealous as Geralt ever outwardly got.

“Oh no,” Jaskier laughed. He rubbed over that little mark with a rueful little smile. “Her husband is back any day now — oh, don’t _look_ at me like that!”

“How am I looking at you?” Geralt intoned.

“Like you’re about to bring about a very tired, very _worn_ conversation.”

Geralt looked straight ahead. Perhaps he was dropping the subject. Maybe he was asking some deity for a dollop of extra patience. At a fork in the road, he took the lower path, abandoning the dense trees. Jaskier followed him without a second thought. He was happy to walk beside Geralt in their newfound silence; he was already thinking of what to fill it with next. Maybe he could talk Geralt into stopping just for a little while, for a _proper_ reunion. There was hardly little harm in proposing it; Geralt would probably refuse, anyway. He had places to be, Jaskier’s Witcher. Afternoon rolls in the grass weren’t things Geralt often took pleasure in.

Yes, Jaskier would have to wait until they bedded down for the night. He hoped, somewhat halfheartedly that they would come across a town by the time Geralt decided to stop for the day. A nice bed and a hot bath would do wonders. For the very least, the alleviation to odors, perfume or _otherwise_.

When Geralt’s mouth opened next, Jaskier had nearly forgotten the trouble. “Eventually, you’re going to get yourself into trouble, and I’m not going to be there to be your _bodyguard_.”

“Then I’ll get myself a pretty dagger,” he mused. “I’ll strap it to my thigh. Happen to have a spare? Ooh, there’s something in that. A noble Witcher offering his protection to a lover even when he isn’t there to give it himself.” He hummed, something plucking at the corner of his mouth. Geralt grunted, looking vaguely like he’d sat in something wet and was still dealing with the consequences hours later. He stopped, looking down the road, and into the trees to their right. Jaskier propped his hand on his hip and gesticulated his nearly-finished apple in the space between them. “Might even write a song about it.”

“Will you also write a song about what happens later, when the dagger isn’t enough for when a lord has men to spill blood for him?” Geralt asked. He continued through the trees.

Jaskier floundered, stepping over a fallen branch to follow. “By the way you speak of me, one would assume you think I’m _stupid_ , Geralt.”

Roach nickered, her tail swatting so that it almost hit Jaskier in the face. He spluttered, scrubbing at his cheek with his sleeve. Geralt looked at him over his shoulder, looking terribly unimpressed. 

“ _Well_ !” Jaskier cried, spreading his arms. “Perhaps I give it all up, then!” The shouting was pointless, with Geralt all of 10 feet away, leading Roach to a nice little clearing. “I’ll just be born again! Pure as a lily. Stark and virginal, only awaiting some _noble_ and _upright_ suitor to come and sweep me off my bare feet.” Jaskier lobbed his sticky apple core at Geralt’s head. The bugger didn’t even bother to pretend to dodge it.

It missed wildly.

“Honestly, what next, Geralt? Going to try and keep me barefoot and pregnant, running a household? You are going to be _very_ disappointed in a few details, my friend.” He stumbled over a branch and fumbled to right himself with a sour _huff_. He dusted himself off and propped his hands up on his waist.

Geralt dropped Roach’s lead and went to dig up to his elbows in one of the saddle bags.

Jaskier found a nice fallen log to sit on and put his satchel on the ground, and prop his lute up on the bag. He watched as Geralt found whatever he was looking for and began to take the saddle off Roach. “Are we stopping here for the night?” he asked, looking over the river bank. It looked deceivingly shallow. The kind of place children play because they perceive it as safe before they’re gobbled up by the laughing currents.

“Yes,” Geralt grunted. “The next town over is a day’s hard ride. We’ll start out after dawn.”

Jaskier nodded, rubbing his hands together. He kicked his feet out in front of him, looking every bit the picture of ease. “Perfect. Looks like the perfect place to prostrate myself as a virginal sacrifice. Have you anything to make a deal to a devil for?”

“Peace.” There was a lilt to his voice. If his back wasn’t turned to Jaskier like it was, he thought he’d see a little plucking at the corner of Geralt’s mouth.

“Oh, I think we’ve been through that one already,” he tutted, “but I’ll take it. It’s best to have something in mind so you don’t kill me for no reason. People will miss me after all. But of course, it’ll be worth it just to escape the _boring_ virtue of my new vow of celibacy.” Geralt laughed and tossed Jaskier a folded fishing net. He began unravelling it as Geralt gathered kindling for the wire. “Darling this is beginning to run many parallels to a very unfortunate couple of days.”

Geralt hummed, glancing up at him. He was on his knees, clever hands occupied with a flint and stone. “The river is full of trout,” he explained. “No djinn, as far as I know.”

Jaskier stood and shook the net out. “Lovely. Well, we can’t go around sacrificing on an empty stomach, now can we?”

“Wouldn’t think of it.”

-

Now, Jaskier was _well_ aware that it was stupid of him to pluck at his lute mournfully that night, all but ignoring Geralt’s quiet “ _Come to bed_ .” It was downright foolish, even. They didn’t often get the chance to hold each other under the stars, kissing soft and slow like there wasn’t a root digging into Jaskier’s side no matter _which_ way he turned.

He was freshly washed in the river that might as well have been made of ice, and he was feeling _petty_ , you see. It did seem awfully important to him at the time.

-

They were together another ten days. In that time Geralt had managed to rid another village of their pesky cow eating, man stealing monster. He came back muddied and bruised and oh, who had room for pettiness, anyway?

Jaskier helped him bathe, washing and gently combing his hair out to the ends. He made love to him in a weary inn bed that was almost too small for the both of them. He took Geralt’s deflowering joke with an abundance of grace and poise, thank you.

Two days later Jaskier kissed Geralt goodbye on a sunny crossroads. He sang loud as he went on his way, hoping Geralt could hear him far into the cheery morning.

-

After they separated, Jaskier put the whole affair, virginal or otherwise, to the back of his mind. That should have been that. He and Geralt would go on about their own business until they came across each other again or Destiny threw them together once more.

Except for in the face of when he was propositioned by a noblewoman to share her bed after a full night of entertaining, he gave pause.

Freshly out of breath from a particularly rousing number, his chest heaved. The day was hot, with summer seeping in through the open windows and doors thrown open to catch a breeze. His cheeks were ruddy, seeming only to draw the woman in further.

 _Her husband was out of town on business. There would be no one to disturb them_ —

It was tempting. Her lips were painted the most sinful red and Jaskier’s mind could only tease him with the idea of her painting _him_ that color, too. Kissing it into his skin like licks of smoldering embers threatening to reflame. She smelled of sweet perfumes, and—

And _now_ the only mouth he could think of was unpainted. Lips parted in a lovely pant, saying such wonderful things in the memory they last shared together.

The woman’s fingers curled into the chest of his jacket, too slender, her grip too soft. Another hand slid down his arm, keeping him close. Her sweet breath fanned over his cheek, lips so dangerously close to his own.

Jaskier shook his head and gingerly removed her fingers twisted into the chest of his doublet. “Terribly sorry, my lady,” he said quite before he knew what he was doing. Those red painted lips twisted, like she couldn’t understand him. He couldn’t remember his excuse, but he collected his coin and left her to her own devices.

He went to bed cold, dissatisfied and aching for the touch of his beloved.

-

Sometimes he heard things on his travels. Townspeople and wanders alike would tell Jaskier stories, or of things they themselves heard about the White Wolf. How he had slayed a monster here, or recused a missing child there.

And honestly, how dare he bring out the heroics when Jaskier wasn’t there to witness and write about them. Not that he necessarily minded gathering details third-hand. After all, every time the story changed hands, the bigger the details that came. The sharper the talons and bloodier the fangs.

It wasn't always good for the heart to hear about werewolf claws ripping one’s lover to shreds, or of him getting gobbled up by great sea monsters, but hell if they didn’t make for good stories. The ballads he could write just by the sheer wild bravado he heard in these tales were truly phenomenal — and people always responded well to the outrageous circumstances. 

But of course, there was always the off-hand group of people with worse experiences concerning Geralt — the ones who spoke of _mutants_ and emphasized the black eyes like they were something for children to fear like the monsters that lurk in the night.

More stories for Jaskier to unwind and restring in a more favorable light. It was work and time well spent, he thought. Singing of Geralt was a privilege, but helping him like this? It was a blessing Jaskier kept close to his heart.

-

He was beginning to get restless. There was only so much Jaskier could do when he felt like he was going to jump out of his skin at any semblance of foreign touch.

A barmaid smiled at him near the beginning of all this and pinched his cheek. She said something about his singing, or maybe it was about his eyes. He couldn’t recall. Although he did remember having to stop himself from giving into the urge to dip her into a sweet kiss, desperate for something, anything _more_.

He helped a man pick a bushel of apples the following week. He was just passing by when the man called to him. When they were done the man mopped the sweat off Jaskier’s brow with a cloth. The man himself was drenched from practically dipping himself in a bucket of water, and by god, wasn’t that an image that stuck to Jaskier’s mind like molasses.

The arduous trend continued on for _weeks_. He presented his tales the best he ever had, with well-loved favorites, and of course ballads about Geralt. Singing about Geralt of Rivia was a privilege all of its own. When he collected his coin he drank wine and spoke with the townspeople until a suitable enough time to go up to his rented room. And it was simply to bed. No fair ladies, or women of the night, or terribly handsome men he arranged to meet upstairs with subtle signs. None of it.

He wondered if he was getting old. Must have been. He debated going to see someone about if this was an issue or not. But, well, it wasn’t as if he was _uninterested_ in all those people. He just — he…

The bit that kept hovering at the back of his brain. Somewhere behind his ears it kept rattling about until he had no choice but to listen to the damn thing. It made him feel like a fumbling eighteen year old again. Young, with barely any taste of adventure on his lips. A time just before he’d met Geralt.

When every touch still meant something. Before it blended and muddled with the rest.

Somewhere along the line, the thought birthed in pettiness and strife became cured. Almost saccharine. He realized he didn’t want another’s touch because it wasn’t _e_ _nough_. No one could substitute Geralt. No one could fill the space in Jaskier’s life like him.

The decision to wait for Geralt wasn’t consciously made. It was like sealing wax put over a low candle flame. It held its shape but as soon as it was acknowledged or touched, he’d all but melted into a puddle, rich and warm. Ready to be molded and stamped anyway the other pleased.

Jaskier was going to jump his bones the moment he saw him.

To think about the promise made his blood _burn_. Virginal, he said. Pure as spring’s fist lily. The farther he went on, the more he was beginning to lose sight of the meaning.

All in all it was a good thought. A noble thought.

But it was fucking _awful_.

Every muscle in Jaskier’s body seemed to be wound so tight he thought he would snap. He would fall apart and die. And then people would be left to sing songs about the poor bard who died because he made the awful decision to stop sleeping with people other than his muse. And his muse was off doing only gods knew what, completely unaware of the bard’s entire dilemma.

It would be a tragedy, obviously. Probably leave the masses in tears. Good. Jaskier always wanted to leave hoards of mourners behind.

He wasn't exactly _looking_ for Geralt, but if he more often traveled in the direction of the rumors of the Witcher, and the whispers of the townsfolk, well... there was no one to call him on it. 

He made a fair amount of coin performing in the towns he had just missed Geralt in. The villagers, still high off of good music and mediocre ale, would paint him a picture of his beloved Witcher’s deeds and then point Jaskier in the direction he left in. Jaskier would thank them ever so much, and set off early the next morning.

It was getting perhaps a little ridiculous. He felt like a child chasing after something pretty on the end of a very long rope. As soon as he came close to the prize, the rope was yanked away from him, and he was left to run after it, desperate to keep up.

When they finally saw each other again, it was Geralt who found _Jaskier_.

**Author's Note:**

> my twitter is [@olliedemitri](https://twitter.com/olliedemitri) !!


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